


Amateur Hour

by mitzvahmelting



Series: matchjokes [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Exhibitionism, Identity Porn, M/M, Podfic & Podficced Works, Rough Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, it's identity porn but no secret identities, original text plus podfic available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6255007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker's love of an audience doesn't exclusively apply to his crime sprees. Sometimes he puts on a disguise and dances in a strip club, because it makes some money and it gets him all hot inside.  One night, Matches Malone shows up, and he doesn't recognize the Joker at first, but Joker sure recognizes him.</p><p>or: Joker is REALLY thirsty, and Batman is obliging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DracoMaleficium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/gifts).



> This is an early birthday gift to [DracoMaleficium](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium). 
> 
> In this story, part of the Matches persona is that he's an older guy, kinda like the B:TAS version.
> 
> Also, folks, this fic is pretty insensitive about sex work, because I figure the characters would probably be pretty insensitive about sex work.
> 
> Now with podfic! See podfic embedded as the second chapter. I highly recommend giving it a listen.

The pole is the lukewarm of cool metal suffocating under too much skin contact, getting hotter with every brush of body against it.  It sticks to his skin for a fraction of a second, before slipping with the movement of his hand. Then, a higher grip, the so-soft skin of both forearms pressing against the cool-hot-cool, sliding down as he moves lower, lower, and then pulling back, thrusting up against an imaginary dance partner. He hopes for friction, feels only the air, and then his mouth goes dry.

It was all too easy to go to Cobblepot’s deputy and pick up another dancer’s shift, using only a little eyeliner and a low v-neck shirt to make his point.  He’s out of practice, but never out of style.

He’s out of practice because he usually has other, more violent ways to make Gotham’s scumbags drool.

Tonight is different.  Tonight, rather than pulling the safety and aiming his machine gun at their thick skulls, he lets the thin band of the cheap roman toga costume slip down his shoulder.  It’s not because he likes these men, or wants to please them, or to pleasure them. He despises them. 

But he wants to perform,

and he wants to indulge a fantasy,

and he wants to display himself.

He arches his back, articulates his spine, and sighs through his teeth tightly. Just as easily as he can manipulate the population of Gotham’s underbelly with a few choice weapons and threats, he can also reel them in with only a few choice shudders of his hip, the positioning of his fingers, the teeth baring down on his bottom lip.  The air is thick with heat and humidity and pheromones.  He’s sweating under the wig cap, and it traps the heat in his head, and he’s being _watched,_ or at least he imagines he’s being watched.

It’s all about pushing himself into that mindset, that part of his head where he can’t think about anything except how there’s nothing to hide behind, nothing to cover himself with, just. Just him. Just him, the center of attention, sweating in the spotlight.  Letting them all watch him work himself into dizzying arousal, so they all want him.

He pulls his arm out of the fabric, so it drapes around his hips, passing lower down his abdomen with every movement.  The short-pants feel tighter than when he began, and if he looks down he can see them beneath the fabric of the toga, the outline of his cock.

It’s around then that he notices a face he recognizes, in the back of the club by the entrance.  Matches Malone.

At first he thinks the sex hormones have made him delirious, and he grips the pole tighter and swings himself to the other side, shuts his eyes and lets the momentum rush some blood back up to his head (hot, hot beneath the wig cap, like he’s on fire, burning in the glow of too many lights). It wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought of his nemesis while onstage, imagined the other man’s disapproving glare at the Joker’s salaciousness, perversion… but, then again, if he _was_ hallucinating, it would make more sense for him to hallucinate the actual Bat, and not one of his spineless alter-egos.

So.

The loose fabric of the toga pools around his ankles, and he is bare except for the short-pants, and the audience jeers, and he’s staring, staring through mascara-thick lashes at the man across the club.  He is _visibly hard_ through the short-pants and the spotlight only accentuates the shadows and _oh,_ he’s starting to feel a little dizzy.

It’s. It’s really him. It’s really Batman, hiding behind a false face, holding back his arrogant and belligerent tendencies, but _there,_ and Cobblepot’s deputy claps a hand on Malone’s shoulder and leads him forward into the crowd of scum. 

 _Yes,_ says a throaty voice in Joker’s mind, _yes, look at me. Look at me._

Malone looks. The match that hangs from his bottom lip twitches as he toys with it, and he appears impassive enough to suggest that he doesn’t recognize the Joker (after all, who would? With the deep amber tones of the wig and the toned-down makeup and the lack of… the lack of, well, clothing…). Joker almost regrets the disguise. He wants the Bat to see _all_ of him.

Then again, there isn’t much hidden.

At the very least, Malone can see how hard he is, can see how his stomach tightens, can see how unpolished his movements are, can see how unprofessional he’s being, how quickly he’s unravelling under the stage lights.

And, through the wire aviators with the dark lenses, Malone meets his eyes, and stares back, shifting his stance to the relaxed posture of a powerful man.

The men around the stage reach for Joker. Thick, sweaty fingers linger on his ass, slip folded bills into the waistband of the short-pants as an excuse to touch him. He keens into the touch, almost unconsciously.  He lets their fingers wander, keeps watching Malone, breathless and aroused and.

If Batman had arrived _before_ Joker had taken the stage, the disguised clown would have run, embarrassed, terrified. He’d never do this for the Bat deliberately, not like this. If the Batman wanted him to dance, he’d have to _make_ him dance.  No – no point in a free show…

But Malone arrived when Joker was already too far gone, delirious with arousal.  And now he isn’t thinking straight. Now he isn’t thinking at all.

He just.  He needs.

Cobblepot’s deputy, the boss-man, grabs Joker’s bicep when the show is over, and in another life Joker may have slit his throat for that, but now, now Joker is all but _naked_ and everyone can see the flush of his chest, the outline of his erection straining against thin elastic fabric.  And all he can think is that he wants, _wants._ And if Cobblepot’s bitch is as good as he can get tonight, then…

It’s a private room, with a small stage and a sort of cushioned booth to sit in.  There’s a chunk of foam missing from the back of the booth that was once covered with duct tape. The lights are red and dim. “I’ve been in the business long enough, Mr. Malone,” says the boss-man smugly, “that I know when a man likes what he sees.” 

“I-” Malone coughs and it turns into a chuckle, his face flushed, fingers of his left hand deep in the pockets of his blazer, likely fingering the switchblade he keeps there, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Jones, I ain’t got any cash on me…”

“Consider this a welcome home gift from my, uh, employer,” says the boss-man, jovially.  He grabs Malone’s right hand and palms him something on the shake, then leaves them alone in the room and shuts the door. 

In a far off place in Joker’s mind, he can hear a more sober version of himself shouting after Jones that he doesn’t do private shows, nor the thing that “private show” euphemistically refers to.  He can see himself glaring in disgust at the client, throwing a punch or five, and hastily exiting through the back with someone else’s jacket on, feeling dirty, debased, like so many times before.

“Sorry, um,” says Matches gruffly, pulling a hand from his pockets to itch the stubble on his chin.  He takes the match out of his mouth and spins it once around his forefinger, sitting heavily in the booth and leaning back, “you don’ haveta do nothing… this isn’t really my…”

Then, Joker is kissing him (kissing Batman, _Batman,_ and, for the first time, Batman is kissing him _back_ and his mouth is… and he is…) and he straddles Malone’s lap and molds their bodies together, thrusts forward to press the front of the short-pants against Malone’s zipper. Everything is hot, everything is overheating and his breath is coming fast and. Batman’s tongue in his mouth. His brain keeps stuttering-stopping at every calm, responsive movement of the other man. A calloused hand moves to Joker’s waist to steady him, warm and self-assured.

Malone chuckles, low, and pulls away.  “Kid, I said you didn’t haveta-”

 _“Please,”_ the Joker breathes, and pushes closer, rocking his hips forward and claiming Batman’s mouth again, his chin catching the scratch of stubble.  This is… he needs… the Bat can’t leave him, not like this, he has to, at least…

Fingers trail up his bare spine, more skin on skin than they’ve ever shared, then palms flat against his shoulders and the small of his back, holding him, pulling him closer against that broad torso, and Joker imagines that this is what it would feel like, if the Batman ever got fed up with him, made the clown his… personal… _whore_ …

The thought just pulls Joker deeper into it, he can barely breathe.  Malone hums, pleased, but after a moment he pulls away again. “Please,” the Joker whines, at the loss, “please, Bats, don’t stop…”

Malone suddenly stills, all tense.  “What did you just say?”

Joker’s heart stops, and the stern look Malone is giving him plays right into the heat in his head. “S-sorry,” he pants, “I meant-”

“Who _are_ you?” And then Malone is looking him in the eye, really staring at him, and Joker can’t help but stare at his mouth, at the lips so pink from kissing, _Batman’s_ mouth…

 _“Joker.”_ Batman growls, and yanks the wig off and the cap too, and the Joker’s hair is matted to his scalp with sweat.

Then Batman’s eyes start scanning the tiny room for, for explosives or something, for a _punchline._ “What is this?” he demands, “How did you know I would be here?”

“I didn’t!” Joker says, “I swear I…”

“Then why the _hell_ are you _here?_ ”

The Joker squirms, the Bat’s anger only fueling his arousal. “Money,” he whispers, “A-attention, I…”

His fingers knot in Joker’s hair and he drags the smaller man off of him, one arm holding him up by his hair and it _hurts_ and Joker… eyes shut, hands latched onto Batman’s forearm to offset the strain on his scalp, lets out a long, low moan.

And that’s it. All the cards have been dealt, leaving Matches Malone holding Joker up by his hair, and Joker’s body completely at the mercy of his gaze.  His eyes snap open again and, hysterically, the Joker forces out a laugh, but he can barely breathe and the way Batman looks at him doesn’t help matters. 

“Just… just fuck me, Bats, just – you know you want to, and you can’t just-” Joker gasps, “you can’t just leave me like this, please don’t leave me, I’ll – I’ll – I’ll go _mad…”_

A long moment passes.  Batman is unsettled, but also apparently satisfied that Joker’s presence was accidental, in no small part because the clown is so… unraveled, and the nudity (and the skin-tight short-pants) precludes any concealed weapons. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he says.

“A-a-anytime, Batsy. Make it a h-habit.  I’ve got n-nothing to hide.” Joker says, again thrusting up against the imaginary dance partner, hoping for friction and feeling only the air. “Literally.”

The other man’s gaze travels lower and Joker will chew through his bottom lip. “You,” says Batman, and then a short sigh, as if maybe he expected better from his bitter rival, “you actually _want_ this.”

“C - come on, Bats, we’ll just… we’ll just pretend. You play Matches, I play the nameless wh-” his breath catches on the word and he coughs hard, whole body curling in the air where Batman holds him, “ _whore of the week._ And, after… _”_

“And after?” Batman quirks an eyebrow over the wire rim of the aviators, as if he knows that Joker meant to say _and, after, we’ll just go our separate ways,_ as if he knows already that the desperate man didn’t finish the sentence because they both know it’s only wishful thinking.

But he slips his free hand in his blazer pocket, and Joker holds his breath expecting the switchblade, planning his route of escape and primed to kick out Batsy’s kneecaps.  And then Malone just pulls out a new match, spins it twice around his forefinger, and settles it in the corner of his mouth where it belongs.  He lets go of Joker’s hair and the clown lands hard on his bare knees.

Malone flicks the condom and lubricant packets that the boss-man had palmed him to the floor in front of Joker, then leans back and spreads his arms to rest along the whole length of the top of the booth, shifts his legs, too, into the easy posture of a mobster, someone slick, someone who knows their own power.  “Alright, kid,” he whispers, unsmiling, eyes hard behind the dark lenses, and then with the low, gruff voice of Matches, he says, “Don’tcha owe me a show?”

There is a zipper from the bottom to the top hem of the right side of the short-pants that Joker pulls with shaking fingers, letting them slip down his left leg and spill out folded bills onto the floor as he grasps the foil packets, staring at Matches, at the sunglasses, unable to look away, head cloudy with the unreality of the situation, there’s no way… there’s no… but he pulls himself back up onto Malone’s lap, shifts forward again and lets his mind empty of anything but the feeling of being completely exposed for the Bat, showing Batman just how hard he is, how needy and wet under the red light.  He tears the lube packet and coats his fingers with half, reaches behind to push into himself with two at the start, rough with himself, eyes never leaving Malone.

 _“Good…_ ” Malone croons, face impassive but for the heat in his eyes, tongue toying with the match, letting Joker do all the work.  “Saw you onstage, kid. Never seen no dancers get that messy onstage. What is this, amateur hour?”

Joker shivers, tries to force himself to relax enough. “The boss doesn’t care as long as the crowd gets off on it.”

“But you’re not a regular. How often d’you do this?”

“Once in a while,” Joker whispers, tries to keep from bucking his hips, the thickness of his own fingers making his toes curl, “to let off some steam.”

“You get off on it, don’tcha? You like bein’ watched?”

“Ba – _Matches…_ ”

Malone spits the match out onto the floor.  He growls out, “Gimme a kiss while you touch yourself.” 

Joker keens forward to taste him, to feel the scratch of Malone’s beard again. Malone removes one hand from the back of the booth to grab the back of Joker’s head and hold him in place, grip tight, biting fiercely at Joker’s bottom lip till he yelps into Malone’s mouth.

At which point Joker is too far gone so he abandons the preparation and unbuckles the belt and unbuttons and unzips Malone’s slacks by feel alone as they kiss hungrily, as he unravels in Batman’s lap.

And. And Batman’s cock. The swath of hair and then the muscle, the heat of his erection and Joker rolls on the condom and pitches forward to align himself and. And.

Their mouths part and Matches is watching him, one hand still bracketed around the nape of Joker’s neck, eyes narrow, watching Joker, waiting for his face to belie the sensation of penetration, and Joker tries, he tries so hard to meet that gaze with the same amount of stoic control as he sinks down onto Malone’s hard cock but it’s _impossible_ because. Because he’s riding Batman slow, so slow, _full_ of Batman, full of cock and shiver-need, and he manages to keep a straight face until the last half inch or so but when he bottoms out he can’t help that his eyes roll back and he moans the B-word and Malone’s breathing gets a little shorter.

“Go on.” Matches slurs the words together, one arm still relaxed on the back of the booth, his other hand now sliding down Joker’s side to rest just under his ribs, squeezing a little, “Y’ want my cock so bad? Go on and _ride_ it.”

Joker braces his hands against Malone’s shoulders and pushes up, slowly, groaning at the sensation, because he can feel it all, he can feel the ridge of the head as he almost pulls off of it, almost empty but for the thickness of Batman’s cock holding him open so wide, and then he sinks back down again and breathes-almost-wheezing and oh. Oh it’s. And Malone is still wearing his button down shirt and blazer, Joker’s cock is wetting the linen, the friction so foreign and rough, the little buttons catching at sensitive skin.

“Touch me,” Joker whines, and there’s a little voice at the back of his mind wondering just how spectacularly destructive he’s going to have to be in the next few weeks just to earn back even a little of Batman’s respect, but that voice is drowned out by the sensation of being filled, and, “Please, why aren’t you…”

“See, this’s what I’m sayin’ about amateur hour,” Matches says, voice hoarse with arousal, “How come I gotta touch you? This ain’t about you. Don’tcha even know anything about bein’ a proper-” He cuts off into a grunt as Joker sinks down slightly faster the second time, arousal spiking at Malone’s words, tightening around his cock.  _“Damn it,”_ says Matches.

He pulls his arm from over the back of the booth and settles both hands on Joker’s ass and _digs his fingers in._ Joker’s moan is breathy and wanton and completely involuntary, and Matches shifts his hands back up to just under Joker’s ribs, grip tight enough for bruises, as he pulls Joker down again onto his cock, this time snapping his hips up and getting another yelp out of him.

Joker kisses him again, messy, and finally, finally Matches is losing his cool.  He stands up off the booth, lifting Joker with him, and, still buried inside the clown, steps forward and settles him horizontal on the raised platform of the little stage. Joker’s head knocks against the base of the pole and then he leans back upwards to kiss Matches wet and open-mouthed and wrap his arms around the mobster’s neck.

Self-restraint evaporated into the heat of the room, Matches fucks Joker hard and fast, the slap of skin muffled slightly by the fabric of his shirt. Joker’s mouth hangs open, but he’s trying to keep quiet as Matches fuck fuck fucks into him because on every thrust Matches grunts a little at the force of it, and Malone’s grunts sound just like Batman’s grunts when they fight.  But Matches is so deep inside of him and Joker can’t manage to stay quiet for very long and he ends up mumbling meaningless words between gasping breaths, because it “feels so – so good, oh God, nnngh, B- _Bats…”_

He squeaks when Matches grabs ahold of him too, starts pumping him roughly, fingernails catching skin, Joker thrusting into the touch with all of the dignity of the damned, and then Malone growls _“Come,_ you son of a bitch,” and one – two – his spine arches his stomach taut and Joker is coming apart in Batman’s hand, his cum landing on his own stomach, wet and heavy and stars behind his eyelids.

Matches comes a few moments later, thrusting inside and then rocking his hips forward to press himself even deeper, at the center of Joker’s being, and Joker is so full, and Matches comes, sighs hoarsely against Joker’s mouth, and stays inside of him through the aftershocks, and it’s like Matches doesn’t want Joker to forget what his cock feels like.

They breathe heavily in each other’s space. Matches pulls out eventually, tosses the condom away (onto the floor, because that’s the sort of thing Malone does), and tucks himself back into his pants, pulling the belt back into place. Joker’s palms press flush over his own face, heels of his hands covering his eyes, the pressure helping him come down, breathing, breathing. Matches lingers over him, smoothing a hand over Joker’s hip and staring down at the clown, at the cum pooled on his bare stomach, the way the muscles in his abdomen move.

Joker giggles quietly to himself, and removes his hands from his eyes, and he looks up at Matches and says, “It should be like this every time.”

Matches just looks at him, impassivity settling back into place. “Don’t blow my cover.”

Grinning through subdued laughter, Joker says “Wouldn’t dream of it, Matches. Wanna keep on your – mmm – on your good side.”

Batman looks down at him with a quiet thoughtfulness, caresses the soft skin of Joker’s hip oh so gently, and then stands up.  He buttons his blazer to hide the stains, puts a new match into the corner of his mouth, and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.


	2. Podfic

**Author's Note:**

> I can't quite help that the song I have stuck in my head right now is [Postmodern Jukebox's interpretation of Usher's "I Don't Mind"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnWJUoR2tFc) even though it's really dissimilar to this story. Mostly because it's just so catchy.
> 
> Edit 2/26/17 Mellie made some INCREDIBLE fanart for this story, go look at it here: [amazing fanart link](http://mellie-art.tumblr.com/post/157750323794/ive-wanted-to-draw-from-this-story-for-aaaaages)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Amateur Hour artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020488) by [melody1987](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody1987/pseuds/melody1987)




End file.
